


Mnemosyne

by subluxate



Series: Person of Interest fics [2]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Giftfic for my bff, Harold and John need to learn to emotion, John Reese is a black hole of self-worth, M/M, My beta is the best beta, Shaw doesn't have time for your bullshit, alternating povs, five things fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-05
Updated: 2013-10-05
Packaged: 2017-12-28 12:44:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/992153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subluxate/pseuds/subluxate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,<br/>in secret, between the shadow and the soul." - Pablo Neruda, XVII</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Erato

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sarcasticsra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcasticsra/gifts).



> For my roomie/bff, because she's awesome. TigerKat is the best beta, and she deserves all credit for all things good about it. Any errors are my own. There's one detail that was discussed in [](http://pofinterest-chat.dreamwidth.org/profile)[](http://pofinterest-chat.dreamwidth.org/)**pofinterest_chat** , and I'm being stubborn about it.
> 
> Anyway. For Sara, because she's awesome. Also, orockthro made [an awesome NSFW illustration](http://orockthro.dreamwidth.org/11583.html) for the first chapter. It's also now posted [here on AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/works/996124).

“Mr. Reese,” Finch said.

John looked up from the book he’d mostly been staring at. “Yes, Finch?”

“Have you forgotten how to read, or are you just trying not to sleep?” When John didn’t answer, Finch said, “I thought as much. We’ll pick up something to eat and take it back to your loft.”

“Why don’t we go to your place, Harold?” It probably would have worked a lot better if John hadn’t immediately followed it with a yawn.

Harold just gave him a look. “Mr. Reese, you haven’t slept in more than two days, and you’ve been involved in at least three and a half altercations in that time.”

“Half?” Before Harold could answer, John did it himself. “You mean the one where the guy tripped on Bear’s leash.”

“I don’t believe it counts as a completed altercation if the other man knocks _himself_ out,” Finch said tartly. “Regardless, you have an appointment with a good meal, a hot shower, and sleep, and I don’t think either of us would enjoy it if you woke up in a strange place and you couldn’t remember getting there.”

“Maybe you can read me a bedtime story.” He punctuated it with a slight smile, rather than a yawn, and it got a better result: Harold smiled back.

“That depends entirely on what you have on hand.” He called for Bear and snapped the dog’s leash on once he got there, then stood with what looked like some effort and a lot of pain.

“You need a hot shower, too,” John said reproachfully.

“I planned on a warm bath and a narcotic,” he said.

“Then it’s a good thing I have a tub. Your meds are still in your bag, right?”

“This is not a sleepover,” Harold said. “This is an attempt to get you to _sleep_ before we get another number.”

“The Machine might take pity on us,” John said, but he didn’t bother to really hope for that outcome. “Come on. You won’t have to call a car or take a cab back to wherever you planned to stay tonight, just get to my loft.”

Rather than answer, Harold picked up his phone. “Vietnamese tonight, I think,” he said, then dialed. “Get my bag, please.”

The tone sent a jolt through John, brain to cock; despite the ‘please’, it had the definite sound of an order. “Sure, Harold. Vietnamese sounds fine.” He stood and found Harold’s bag, and the two of them and Bear left the library. John closed the gate behind them and opened the door ahead as Harold placed their order.

The restaurant was only two blocks out of the way, and Harold said, “The walk will be good for me, and Bear could use it,” when John stopped to hail a cab. John held the umbrella over all three of them as they walked at the pace Harold set. He’d have to dry Bear later, though.

John took the bag when they paid for their takeout. “You paid,” he said at Harold’s look. “And you have Bear.”

“I’m not sure why having Bear’s leash means I can’t carry a bag of food,” he said, “but I’ll let it go.”

John really was very tired; Harold had been right in how he’d summed up the last couple of days. They’d saved Gina McCarthy, though, and gotten her brother, Ethan, arrested. He’d probably already been disinherited by their grandmother. 

Those facts did not mean John didn’t seriously consider going to bed in his suit, but he could imagine Harold’s expression if he followed through on the thought. Instead, he hung their coats, put his shoes and jacket away, and went to dry Bear while Harold unpacked their food. 

They ate bánh mì on the couch while Bear had the designer dog food they’d recently started him on (though John gave him a couple of pieces of ham; Bear had been working hard, too). Then they finished off by vegetable rolls, and by the time they were done, John felt pleasantly sleepy, which fit his physical exhaustion. 

“Shower, Mr. Reese,” Harold said when John started to collect their dishes. “I know where the dishwasher is.”

“Thank you, Harold,” John said and kissed him.

They both froze, John instantly aware of the fact that Harold wasn’t moving into it but also wasn’t pulling away, while about half his mind shouted at him about what a terrible idea this had been, how Finch wasn’t going to want to do more than work with him after this, and then—

And then Harold rested a hand on the back of John’s neck, kissing him back, and John opened his mouth when Harold did the same. John might be bone-deep tired, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy this, and just as he was considering what he might be able to do for Harold after they were done kissing, Harold pulled away.

“Shower, Mr. Reese,” he said in almost the same tone, but with a hint more steel and a touch more affection. “I believe I’ll stay here tonight, if that’s all right with you.”

“Which side of the bed do you sleep on?”

“The left,” he said.

“I sleep kind of in the middle, so I might end up on top of you,” John said. He thought it was an entirely appealing idea. 

“That should be fine, Mr. Reese.” Harold stood and gave him a gentle push toward the bathroom before collecting the dishes John had already stacked.

John detoured only to collect a pair of pajama pants on his way to the bathroom. He nearly dozed off in the shower, something he hadn’t done in a few months, and that told him he probably wouldn’t be up for much more than a little kissing before he did fall asleep. Then again, Harold had been sitting on either the couch in the library or in his computer chair for the same two days as John had spent running around after Gina. While it was a good enough ergonomic chair, John figured anyone would be sore after spending most of two days sitting in it.

Once he’d toweled off and pulled on the pants he’d brought, he picked up his clothes. He’d normally just toss them into the closet to deal with when less exhausted, but, this time, he was aware of Finch’s presence on his couch. Because of that, he took the time to rehang his pants, smoothing out wrinkles before he put them in the closet beside his jacket, and tossed the rest into the hamper. Then he went over to the couch, where Finch was working on his laptop, and bent to kiss him.

Finch kissed him back, willing and easy. His faint stubble—Harold had _stubble_ ; John had half-thought he just willed his facial hair to stay below his skin—caught at John’s and left the faint feel of scratches behind. He wondered if, one week, he could get Harold to not shave at all. He’d have some wonderful beard burn at the end.

Harold broke the kiss with a hand on John’s chest and gentle pressure, making him straighten. “Do you have anything I might wear tonight, Mr. Reese?”

“I have some pants and boxers that should be your size,” John admitted.

Harold gave him an inquisitive look.

“In case you had to stay here because your safehouses were blown or you were in too much danger, or if…” John trailed off. It felt stupid, had even when he bought them, but he’d had that tiny grain of hope.

“Then it was a good idea, wasn’t it?” Harold said briskly. “I have clothes in your size in various places around the city, too, I must admit.”

John relaxed. “I’ll get them for you. Shirt, too?”

“No, I think I’ll go without one. Your bed should be warm enough.” Harold set his laptop aside and stood slowly, as though unlocking his joints. “I’ll take a bath before I join you.”

John felt giddy as he got out the clothes for Harold. The idea of Harold sleeping in his bed was enough to make him feel something beyond happiness; the idea of Harold sleeping in his bed shirtless, with the potential for more than just sleep once they’d both woken up, was dizzying. He wound up pinching the underside of his own forearm to make sure he hadn’t fallen asleep back in the library and dreamt the whole thing.

He knocked when he brought the clothes to the bathroom door, and Harold called, “Come in.” He had the bath running, but it wasn’t making the mirror fog, John saw when he opened the door; he must have meant it when he said he wanted a warm bath. “Do you have any Epsom salts?” he went on.

John looked away from the not-fogging mirror and over to the toilet; Harold was sitting on the lid as he peeled off his socks. He’d already taken off everything from the waist up, glasses aside; his undershirt, shirt, vest, and jacket were all draped over the counter. John was suddenly glad he kept it clean. “Under the sink,” he said. His throat felt dry, and he took a sip of water from the glass on the counter before bending to get the salts, then set the bag on the counter. “You’ll smell like Vicks for a while, though,” and now he was stalling and Harold had to know it.

“That’s the kind I use. Thank you. I find it helps when I’m particularly stiff.” Harold stood and glanced at John pointedly.

“Yell if you need anything else,” John said and stepped back out, closing the door. He groaned, rubbing his eyes. He was much too tired to think this through. Bear looked over from his bed, ears pricked, and John gave him a look. “Don’t be like that.”

Bear gave him a doggy smile, leapt to his feet, found a ball, and brought it to him.

“Five minutes,” he told the dog. “No more than five minutes.”

It didn’t matter how long it actually was, though; dogs couldn’t tell time, and John wasn’t keeping track. By the time his throws were slightly off kilter, Bear looked ready to quit. John just set the ball down, and Bear walked off, claws clicking on the floor, to slurp water from his bowl.

Since John didn’t know how long Harold usually soaked, he decided he’d just go to bed. He got a glass of water and brought it to the bed, then stopped. The nightstand was on the left, where he usually reached for water, but Harold would sleep there. He could move the nightstand…

Or he could just reach over Harold when he got thirsty. It probably wouldn’t wake him, and it definitely wouldn’t be as awkward as getting caught moving the furniture around.

So he set the water down, folded back the sheet and blankets, and went about turning off most of the lights, just leaving on the under-cabinet ones in the kitchen and the one on the nightstand. He put all of the most comfortable pillows on Harold’s side, since he didn’t know how many he used, and punched down the others before he slid in, just to the right of the middle.

Harold came out before he was asleep; he stood beside the bed a moment, seemingly indecisive, and John blinked up at him.

“I found your spare toothbrush,” Harold said. “I hope that’s all right.”

“You pay me more than enough to replace a toothbrush.” He patted Harold’s side of the bed. “Get comfortable.”

Harold’s mouth twitched slightly; then he set down his glasses and got in bed. John realized a moment later that ‘getting comfortable’ meant, to Harold, a couple of minutes to rearrange pillows around and under himself. One wound up under his knees, another below his lower back, and the third shifted around to support his head in what was probably an imperfect way.

“Do you need another?” John asked, his voice sleepy.

“It’s hardly fair to use nearly all your pillows,” Harold said.

“I could sleep on the floor with none and be fine.” John lifted himself up on one elbow and gave Harold one of his last two pillows.

Harold sat up to fold it in half and position it between his knees, then lay back down. “It’s not that I’m not glad you do, but why do you have so many pillows, Mr. Reese?”

John shrugged with his right shoulder; he lay curled on his left side, facing Harold. “It’s a luxury. I didn’t have many of those for a long time.”

Harold switched off the light and didn’t answer for a moment. Finally, just before John edged into sleep, he said, “Perhaps I’ll get you more, then.”

John smiled to himself in the dark. He reached over to set a hand on Harold’s arm and fell asleep.

When bright light poured in through the south-facing windows the next morning, John groaned and shifted closer to the warmth beside him. He should get up and walk Bear, but he didn’t want to leave Harold in his bed. This was his for now; when he got up, it would slip away.

Then Harold made a small, pained sound, one that probably only escaped because he was mostly asleep, and John was fully, immediately awake and upright, if still in bed. “Harold. What do you need?”

Harold’s eyes squeezed shut for a moment, then he squinted at John. “There are medications in my bag. Bring it, please.”

John got up and hurried to the couch to grab the bag. Bear beat him back to Harold, nosing at his arm and making little pleading sounds. 

“Yes, very good, Bear,” Harold muttered. He’d put on his glasses in the seconds John had his back turned. He stroked the dog’s head, then pushed him away gently.

“Which ones?” John asked, finding the little toiletries bag of bottles at the bottom. 

“Just give them to me, please, Mr. Reese.”

A couple of pills, washed down with John’s glass of water, and Harold handed the toiletries bag back. “Those should help shortly.”

“How can I help?” John asked; he couldn’t stand the way the skin around Harold’s eyes looked tight, his mouth drawn.

“There aren’t many things that work better than the medication,” he said dryly, “but breakfast would help me digest them faster.”

“What do you want?” John asked. 

With what looked like tremendous effort, even though he didn’t make a sound, Harold sat up and turned so he sat on the edge of the bed. “I don’t suppose you could poach eggs.”

“Harold,” John said, injured, “do you think I can’t cook?”

“On the contrary, I know you can. I also know that poached eggs aren’t something everyone who can cook knows how to make.”

“Two?” he asked.

“Two and toast with jam, if you have it.”

“Anything else?”

“I don’t suppose you have tea,” Harold said.

John did, in fact, have tea. Good tea, too; he’d gotten Zoe’s opinion. She didn’t know much about tea, but she had a contact who imported it and who gave him expert opinions on all the main varieties. He’d replaced his stash twice already without using any of it more than once, since tea apparently went stale; he donated it to Carter, whose mother loved tea, both times. (“I don’t want to know how you know that, John. We’ve talked about boundaries.”) “Green, black, oolong, or white?”

The smile Harold gave him made John want to kiss him, so he did, crouching down to do so. Harold kissed him back, stroking one hand down the back of his head, then pulled back. “Oolong, please.”

“I have some good ones,” John said. He rose again and went into the kitchen. “Ten minutes,” he called back.

While the eggs cooked and the toaster heated, he fed Bear so that he’d leave them alone while they ate. Harold’s tea steeped while John kept an eye on the moka pot. He got their food together just before their drinks would be ready and brought the plates to the living room. Harold had already made his way to the couch, and John set their food on the coffee table in front of him. Then he went back for Harold’s tea and his own not-quite-espresso (he hadn’t felt like using the hulking espresso machine that took up a corner of his generous counter space to make the real thing). He’d made the tea in the one cup he owned that had a saucer; he put two cubes of sugar on the saucer, beside the cup, and a spoon in the tea. Harold looked appropriately pleased by that, though he didn’t use the sugar.

John sat close to Harold as they ate, but not so close that he’d jostle him or keep him from being able to actually eat. He’d like to be much closer, at least touching him, but he wasn’t entirely sure of where they stood. Carter would laugh in his face for it, but he didn’t know the boundaries of whatever they’d started. Even so, his breakfast tasted better than usual, and he could swear his coffee was richer.

“Thank you, John,” Harold said as John cleared away the plates. He looked more relaxed, the skin around his eyes less tight. “That was very good.”

“Next time, I’ll make you Eggs Benedict and a whole pot of tea,” he said. 

As he took the dishes into the kitchen, Harold asked the obvious question: “You have a teapot?”

John didn’t answer until he got back to the living room. “You like tea.” 

He knelt before Harold and reached up to kiss him, slow and easy. Harold still tasted like raspberry jam. He kissed him back, cupping his face at first, then running one hand up and through his hair. He slid the other hand lower and back, grasping the back of John’s neck with just enough pressure, and John moaned. He surged forward hungrily, trying to kiss Harold harder, and Harold stopped him with a sharp tug on his hair. He’d already been half-hard, but that brought him all the way there. 

He rested one hand in the middle of Harold’s left thigh and ran the other up the inside of his right. Harold nipped gently at John’s lower lip, and he took that as encouragement. Once he reached Harold’s cock, Harold’s grip on the back of his neck tightened, and he rubbed Harold’s thigh while running his hand, using just a little pressure, up the length of his cock. 

Harold pulled back and used the hand that had been in John’s hair to grip his chin; their eyes met. “Do you want this, John?”

John licked his lips, gaze dropping to Harold’s lap and back up. “I’ve wanted it for years, Harold.”

“Then you can have it.” He leaned forward to kiss John again, lighter, and John took it, fumbling at the same time with the button fly of Harold’s pajama pants.

He managed to get Harold’s cock out of the flies of both his boxers and pajama pants, and he dropped from kneeling upright to resting back on his heels and bending forward. It had been some time since he’d given a blowjob; the last time had been part of an assignment in Germany, giving the guy enough of a distraction that he wouldn’t go back to his apartment before Kara could ransack it. This was entirely different, entirely better; this was _Harold_.

Harold made a soft sound as John licked a line up his cock. Then he took it in his mouth, just the head at first, where he could easily run his tongue all around it and find the especially sensitive spots. Harold moved the hand on the back of his neck up to the back of his head, slid the one that he’d used to grip John’s chin back into his hair, and John half-moaned, half-tried to mumble Harold’s name around the head of his cock. Harold pressed, just the tiniest bit, on the back of John’s head for half a second, and John read it as instruction; he took as much of Harold’s cock in his mouth as he could without choking. He kept one hand on Harold’s thigh, used the other to play with Harold’s balls as much as he could through two layers of clothes. Harold didn’t thrust into his mouth, although John would have loved it if he had; instead, he used his hands on John’s head to direct him. Slight pressure on the back of his head forward, gentle tug on his hair back, and Harold set up a rhythm. He made small, sharp sounds as John sucked him.

John was so hard it ached; his skin felt too tight, and he felt little electric sparks from everywhere he and Harold touched. He kept his hands on Harold, but he couldn’t help jerking his own hips at how raw this made him feel, how open and hot at once, and he couldn’t imagine how it might feel with more contact. He shuddered under Harold’s hands, around his cock, and sucked harder. His own cock twitched in his pants, and he thought how it would feel if Harold fucked him, if he held him in this same way when he fucked his mouth, his hands on John’s head and controlling everything that way. His cock rubbed against the waistband of his pants, and he was more feverishly glad than ever that he didn’t wear underwear to bed. He humped air and cloth, matching Harold’s rhythm, and then Harold made a sound, desperate and purely sex, and John came. As soon as he relaxed, he closed his eyes and focused on Harold. 

Harold didn’t seem to realize what had happened. He sped up the pace John moved his head at, and John used every trick with his tongue he remembered, did as much as he could to get Harold there. It worked within a couple of minutes; Harold choked out, “Oh, _John_ ,” and then spurted into John’s mouth. 

John swallowed it all, and Harold’s hands on his head relaxed. He tucked Harold’s cock back into his pants and boxers, then rested his cheek on Harold’s thigh, looking up at him.

Harold looked at him _tenderly_ , as though he valued John, and it was too much; John closed his eyes. “John, let me—” Harold began, and John shook his head.

“I already…” Heat rose in his cheeks. “I already finished.”

“Oh.” Harold sounded startled. “Then you did enjoy it.”

John’s eyes snapped open. “Why wouldn’t I?” He’d tried to show Harold how much he wanted it, but if he hadn’t done it well enough, then Harold probably wouldn’t want to do this again.

“The way I controlled how you moved.” He looked vaguely uncomfortable, but his voice stayed steady. “I apologize, Mr. Reese, if that wasn’t something you wanted…”

“It was perfect,” John interrupted. “You can do—you can do anything to me, Harold.”

Harold stroked a hand tenderly through his hair. “You mean that, don’t you?”

“You gave me my life,” he said.

His hand stilled. “I don’t want you to do this out of—out of some misguided sense of _obligation_ , Mr. Reese.”

John cringed inwardly. If he’d screwed this up, he’d never forgive himself. “No, not like—it’s not that, Harold. It’s—I wouldn’t have you or Bear or anyone else without you. And I—” He stopped again, trying to find the right words. “I don’t think I owe you for it,” he said finally, which was not entirely true. “But I want you to have all of me.”

He must have understood something; he started to stroke John’s hair again. “I see.” 

John wasn’t sure he did, which Harold apparently divined telepathically.

“We’ll have to find a way to make it clear that you’re mine, then.”

John turned his face into Harold’s thigh and beamed.


	2. Polyhymnia

“You’ll accompany me to meet Ms. Marinos of Marinos Industries as John Rooney,” Harold said. He allowed his mouth to twitch slightly in displeasure, since he was speaking to Reese over the phone. “You’ll need to wear a tie. You should have a dark blue one that would go nicely with your suit.”

A pause; then Reese said, “I was thinking about wearing that dark grey shirt with the dark red tie.”

Harold frowned. “You can wear what you’d like, of course, Mr. Reese. We’ll need to get to the hotel by one. It’s a lunch meeting, so you might want to eat before.”

“Why Harold, I think you’re learning.” He sounded amused. “I’ll pick something up on my way to change. How violent do you think they might be?”

He considered the question. “Ms. Marinos tends to have two bodyguards with her at all times. Her assistants’—that’s plural, not merely possessive—email history indicates they’ve hired a third.”

“So the threat is to her.” 

“I shouldn’t need to remind you that we’ve been doing this too long to assume either way,” Harold said. “I’ll meet you at your apartment at eleven forty-five. Bear can stay here.”

Bear perked up at the sound of his name; then he put his head back down at the word ‘stay’. Harold tossed him his ball.

“I’ll be ready.”

John, as promised, wore the slate grey shirt and crimson tie. Harold sighed at the sight.

“I’d think you would know how to tie a Windsor knot by now,” he muttered, already untying it.

John smirked. “Maybe I just like having you do it for me.”

“There are other potential uses for this tie, Mr. Reese.” Harold had the pleasure of seeing John’s pupils dilate. “Unfortunately, none of them are appropriate at the moment.”

“There’s later,” John suggested once he’d cleared his throat.

“Perhaps after we’ve taken care of Ms. Marinos’ problem.” Harold finished and stepped back, nodding in satisfaction. “Much better.” That was, it was better if Reese had to wear a tie at all.

Reese looked him up and down. “You make me feel underdressed.”

“Considering that you work for me and I am worth considerably more than you, Mr. Rooney, it’s appropriate,” Harold said tartly. “Let’s go. We don’t want to be late.”

“After you, Mr. Crane,” Reese said with a little flourish of a bow. 

The car, booked under John Rooney’s name, was idling at the curb. They got in the back, one on either side, and stayed quiet for the ride. Harold didn’t trust the privacy screen to keep things away from the driver, and he hadn’t swept the car for bugs even if he did.

The car pulled into the small circular drive at the front of the hotel, stopping in front of the simple, if well-made, door. The driver opened the door for Harold, and Reese let himself out. They walked through the doors together, Harold’s ornate cane tapping along the travertine floors. After they turned down a short hall, they came to a desk.

“Mr. Crane and Mr. Rooney, here for Ms. Marinos,” Harold said to the headwaiter. 

“This way, sirs,” he murmured.

They followed him toward the back of the restaurant, stopping at a little nook a table sat in. Natasa Marinos sat at the table, her bodyguards—three, Harold noted—stood behind her, all at parade rest. He knew from the basic background research he’d conducted on the bodyguards that two were SEALs and one was a Marine; the Marine stood closest to the rest of the restaurant. 

“Ms. Marinos,” Harold said, pressing a light kiss to the back of her hand. “This is my asset manager, John Rooney.”

She inclined her head. “Mr. Crane.” She didn’t acknowledge Reese. Harold had expected as much.

Throughout their conversation, Reese unobtrusively used a variety of phones Harold had provided him with to bluejack all the bodyguards’ phones, as well as Ms. Marinos’ with his own phone. He’d have to figure out how to listen in on all of them when they were separated from each other, but Harold had confidence in his abilities. In the event that Reese couldn’t manage all the lines, Harold had plans of his own that he’d put into place, but Reese had been doing this long enough that Harold’s confidence should be justified.

He glanced at Reese every so often, mainly when Reese spoke. The lines of John’s neck were disrupted by his shirt collar. The way he usually wore his shirts, with the top two buttons undone, showed them much more smoothly. 

The lunch took nearly three hours. Harold picked up the check, as Crane would in nearly any situation. Ms. Marinos left first, Harold and Reese close behind her and her bodyguards. The car reserved under John Rooney’s name swung around shortly after Ms. Marinos’ own Town Car was brought up by a valet and one of her bodyguards slid into the front seat. 

As soon as they were in the back of the car, Harold texted John. He still didn’t trust privacy screens, but the driver couldn’t well pick up on their texts. {Take your tie off, please.}

John gave him an amused look. All the same, he loosened the knot of his tie, slowly drawing it down until the tail of the tie came loose and he had the tie completely off.

{Thank you. Unbutton the top two buttons of your shirt.}

This time, John’s gaze was more heated. Harold kept his expression bland, despite the fact that John’s compliance, unbuttoning his shirt as he looked at Harold, was definitely something Harold would have to remember some night when they didn’t have a number.

{Thank you, Mr. Reese. I would appreciate it if you put on a white shirt when we return to your loft.}

John texted him back that time. {Why Harold, I almost think you get off on telling me how to dress.}

Harold didn’t bother texting him back; he just gave John a look, corners of his mouth turned slightly up and eyebrows barely lifted. John let out a soft sigh, sinking into the seat, and fisted his hands in his tie.

“Careful, Mr. Rooney,” Harold said. “You might damage the tie.”

John stared at him, as if he couldn’t believe that Harold would be concerned about _clothes_ when they were having this conversation. Clearly, then, he had forgotten aspects of Harold’s character. He’d have to remind him later. Perhaps a new suit, making John stand absolutely still as he measured and pinned. Yes, that would do nicely.


	3. Thalia

John lay stretched along the length of the bed, gripping the wooden slats of the headboard in this particular safehouse. He still had his pants on but no shirt, and he’d taken off his shoes and socks. He wanted desperately to get out of his pants and to let his cock have actual contact with something other than the cotton of his boxer briefs.

But Harold seemed perfectly content with things as they were. He was bent over John, one forearm supporting him and the other hand running up and down John’s chest, scratching gently, occasionally stopping to pinch one of John’s nipples lightly. But that wasn’t the main event of the moment. No, that was the way Harold bit his shoulder, then sucked hard enough to leave a dark hickey. He kept switching sides, moving slowly toward his neck, and this next one would be—

On his chest, apparently. John bit back a frustrated curse.

Apparently not well enough, since Harold stopped and looked at him. “Something wrong, Mr. Reese?”

And that, the way Harold called him that while he had John stretched out on a bed and bound without anything tying him, made John’s cock twitch. As much as it could when confined by boxer briefs, anyway. “Harold,” John gritted out, “more?”

“Not just yet, I don’t think.” Even so, he moved back up to John’s neck, settling on the right side slightly behind his pulse point. The collar of his shirt might hide it, but it probably wouldn’t. The thought made John smile even as he shuddered under Harold’s mouth.

The next day, John was busy trying to hunt down one Elijah Hunter before he got himself killed. Shaw was after the potential killer, an associate of Elijah’s bartender, of all people. It had something to do with unpaid gambling debts mixed with an unpaid tab and a mention in Elijah’s will. John had known people to kill for less.

Unfortunately, John and Shaw wound up on the same street corner, heading into the same law firm. 

“I don’t think he’ll kill Elijah here,” John said.

“I think he will just so he has a lawyer before the cops get here,” Shaw said. “Which floor was Hunter going to?”

“Eighth.”

It looked like only one elevator was working, and there was a crowd in front of it. They exchanged a look and headed for the stairs. 

“Beat you there,” Shaw said, “and then you can buy me a sandwich.” She slipped past him and pounded up the stairs. 

John stayed hot on her heels. He could afford the sandwich, but feeding her was getting a little old.

She did make it to the eighth floor first, mostly because she stayed in the center of the stairs all the way up. He walked through the door beside her, and she glanced up. “Hot pastrami on rye,” she said, “everything on—what is that mark on your neck.”

John grinned at her. He hadn’t had anyone ask all day. “Harold likes to leave marks.”

“Enough said, stop now.” 

The two of them strode down the center row of cubicles, which had low enough walls that they could both see over them. “Last night he spent a long time leaving them. My shirt covers most of them, but—”

“I _will_ stab you.”

“—he likes leaving the ones other people can see more than the rest.”

“Got it, he’s practically putting tags on you, shut up now.” Shaw peeled away to stride toward the offices along one wall.

John shrugged and went the other way. The idea of some sort of tags appealed to him. Maybe he’d see if he could get Harold to give him something a little more permanent.


	4. Calliope

They hadn’t had a call all day, and they’d each gone out to stroll past several pay phones every hour or so, Bear keeping them company. Finally, at one, Harold said, “It doesn’t look as though we’ll get a number today. You might as well go home.”

“I almost think you’re trying to get rid of me,” Reese said mournfully. “Don’t you enjoy my company?”

Harold gave him a quelling look. “I’m sure you have better things to do than roam the stacks or clean your arsenal yet again, Mr. Reese.”

“The stacks still have a lot I haven’t read, Harold.” Reese rose to his feet, leaving the handgun he’d disassembled on the table behind Harold’s monitors, and walked off into them.

“You know how I feel about guns,” Harold called after him.

“Don’t worry. It won’t bite,” Reese called back.

Harold shook his head and turned back to his computer. He had work to do for Harold Sparrow, the one who had left IFT as a result of Reese’s interference; he was doing contract work now, and he was closing in on a deadline. Harold could code the project in his sleep, but he’d have to take longer just to incorporate enough errors that it would pass as Sparrow’s work. Then he’d have to document absolutely everything, something the client requested, before sending it on to the next link in the chain of this project. The next person got the fun of editing his code and so catching any errors, which meant Harold couldn’t use any of his particular shortcuts. Sparrow wouldn’t know them, let alone use them.

Easy coding or not, it was still coding, and he sank into the familiar work with ease. His fingers flew across the keyboard, and he scanned everything as he went, occasionally going back to add a typo or incorrect command. He hardly even heard Reese come back to his work area.

“How’s it going, Harold?” he asked.

“Just fine. Really, it’s quite simple, but they had to outsource the project because their own IT person is support, nothing more. Fortunately, Harold Sparrow just so happened to need a new contract at that time.”

“Lucky for him,” Reese said, sounding amused. Harold heard the thuds of two things hitting the ground, and then John padded soundlessly over to him and sank down on the floor, leaning slightly into Harold’s chair.

Harold rolled the chair out a bit and turned it and his keyboard to a new angle, one that would allow him to work just as efficiently but meant that John could lean against his leg as he read without being under the desk. “Is there enough light for you?”

“I’m fine,” John assured him.

“That’s not an answer,” he said crisply.

“There’s enough light for now, Harold.” John opened his book and leaned into Harold’s leg, and Harold got back to work.

The only sounds after that were John turning pages and Harold typing, occasionally Bear’s claws clicking across the floor until he decided to come lie by John’s side. Every so often, Harold came to a point where he needed to pause and check back so his typos matched or he made another error identical to previous ones, and then he dropped his left hand to John’s hair, stroking through the strands as he scrolled and read. John made soft, pleased sounds every time he did it, following Harold’s touch with his head the way a cat might, and Harold indulged him longer than strictly necessary every time. 

He finished the project just as the light through the windows was turning orange. He saved it to send later; it was still earlier than Sparrow should have it finished, so he’d hold off for a few days before sending it on to the next independent contractor. “John,” he said softly, and John looked up at him. “You should reassemble your gun before we leave for the night.”

“I wouldn’t want a mouse to run off with anything,” John agreed, rising to his feet. “How does Italian sound?”

“I suppose I could make reservations,” Harold said dubiously, eyeing the dog hair on John’s pants.

“I know a place. It won’t matter what I’m wearing, as long as it’s something.” He bent over the other side of the table, his hands moving expertly.

“That does not inspire confidence, Mr. Reese,” Harold said. “Will they allow Bear?”

“As long as he has his vest, they have to.” He straightened, gun in hand, completely assembled. “I’ll find it, and then he and I will be ready.” He stepped off toward the stacks and wherever he might have left the vest.

Harold stood and twisted from one side to the other, then stretched carefully. His back had always locked up if he sat for too long, which was a hazard for a programmer; it was part of why he’d had the treadmill upstairs in IFT while he coded the Machine. He half-hoped John had left the gun somewhere, rather than carrying it to dinner with them.

“You should take up yoga, Harold,” John said from behind him. “It would help with that stiffness.”

“I don’t have the time, Mr. Reese.” He picked up Bear’s leash. “Don’t forget your shoes.”

Bear stood, his ears perked up, and John bent to fasten the vest around him; then John snapped on the leash. “You could at least find something you could do in five minutes. I know you’re not working on the computer the whole time you’re here and I’m out there.”

“I’ll consider it,” Harold said, and John grinned; he clearly felt triumphant. He made a mental note to make sure John didn’t look like that again until much later that night.


	5. Urania

Bear lay on his bed, one paw crossed over the other and his chin flat along the floor. His ears twitched occasionally, but the sounds were the same as usual: Glasses Man typing, Tall Man saying something even though his smell wasn’t there, Glasses Man sounding worried and sharp. That always changed the way Glasses Man smelled, but Bear was used to it enough that he didn’t worry over it unless Glasses Man got loud, too. 

Tall Man’s voice came out of the box, and Glasses Man relaxed, sitting back down. Bear’s eyes slid closed; nothing to worry about unless Glasses Man started smelling worried again.

He opened his eyes when he heard the door downstairs open. That had him on his feet in an instant, trotting over to the gate, and not barking because it was Tall Man, even if he did smell acrid. Bear wagged his tail and panted; as soon as Tall Man opened the gate, Bear jumped on him, knocking him over.

Glasses Man interrupted their play by saying Tall Man’s name. Tall Man gently pushed on Bear, and Bear leaned into his hands for a moment, even though he knew what Tall Man wanted. Then he stepped aside and followed at Tall Man’s heels, his tail wagging hard. 

Glasses Man gave Tall Man a little box, and Tall Man looked at it for a little bit, sort of frowning. Bear sat and looked up at him expectantly. If someone had given him a box like that, he’d already have shredded it. Tall Man finally opened it, and his scent changed a moment later, something that meant _happy_ and something else that meant Bear probably shouldn’t be between them. But they weren’t down to their skin, so it was probably safe to stay where he was.

Glasses Man talked to Tall Man for a while, and Bear stopped paying attention. People talked too much. Dealing with other dogs was much easier than trying to understand the details of what people thought and wanted.

He jerked his attention back when Tall Man dropped his hand to pet him. His hand smelled different, and Bear chased it with his nose. He licked it, surprised to find a small piece of metal on one of Tall Man’s fingers. That had never happened before. He licked it again, and it was still there, right against Tall Man’s finger and curving up either side of it. Tall Man laughed, and Glasses Man patted Bear on the head, saying something about food.

Tall Man left for a little while, telling Bear to sit; Bear heard the sound of water running while Tall Man was gone. Glasses Man picked up one of the talk-boxes and held it against his ear. He said a lot of words, and Bear knew enough of them to know they meant food. He panted at Glasses Man and wagged his tail hopefully.

Glasses Man left Bear and Tall Man in the library together; Bear thought he’d come back with food. It usually worked that way. Tall Man took off his shoes, coat, and jacket, then sank down in the couch. Bear followed, walking up onto the couch so he could lie along it and drop his chin onto Tall Man’s leg. Tall Man laughed and scratched behind his ears. Bear knew how this worked, and he got off the couch as soon as he heard the door down the stairs open. Glasses Man never really knew he’d been on the couch if they did it that way. Glasses Man came up a minute later, and he started to take out food boxes while Tall Man went away again. More water ran, and then he came back. He pressed his mouth against the back of Glasses Man’s neck.

Bear got kibble while they ate, and they sometimes gave him bits of chicken or pork. After, they put everything in the garbage and put the garbage bin in a closed room. Bear had only gotten into it _once_ , and they still did that.

They sat on the couch after that, together, pressing their mouths together or against other parts of each other’s faces, their bodies touching. Bear lay along the stacks and watched them, his ears twitching as he heard other sounds. He knew when Tall Man fell asleep before Glasses Man. Glasses Man rearranged him some, then fitted himself on the couch, too. Bear stood and padded over. He sat by the couch, his ears alert to every small sound in the library, and he stayed that way until Tall Man woke again.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Mnemosyne: Knelt Before You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/996124) by [Orockthro](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orockthro/pseuds/Orockthro)




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